Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
sarrahvxlxr Nov 2018
You told me about the ghosts
that lived inside your bedroom,
I said I wasn't there
to send them away.
You thought I couldn't fix you
and you were right—
you didn't need fixing from anyone else.
There was a bit of you
that survived the shipwreck
and that was where you would have started.
I was there the whole time
waiting
outside
staying silent.
Until I heard your window cracked open.
And now your ghost,
it lingered.
It made its own haunted house
except the house followed me wherever I go.
sarrahvxlxr Oct 2018
You are a fool to believe
that I am permanent. Like waves,
it is the lips of the shore I know
how to kiss and I do flee
when I want the depth
from within.
You will stay, you say.
But I know your face,
it's from long ago.
Know
that this protective shell
will not flinch.
You will know
about Jupiter,
its secrets.
Days later, it will collapse.
To ease you of your pain,
I will write you a book but
I will rip the last three pages
you will carry it back to me
but you will find me
gone.
sarrahvxlxr Aug 2018
I tried to warn you about my cold hands
but stubborn, you were
you stained my bed with your voice
its eyes weighed on me as if to warn you
about the comings and goings
of the monster that they held.
I was this wolf howling in the night
you mistook that as a cry for help
when I only meant to send you running.
I gave you warning signs.
Your love still overdressed.
I don't know, I said, what to do with it.
But come near.
We shared the same cold
and it made us both warm.
But my hands remembered who you could be.
sarrahvxlxr Jun 2018
I am overwhelmed
in a way that I am both happy and afraid
and I only want to be cautious.
I want to say that this,
this is the part where I will throw
my coldness to the ground,
be naked and vulnerable,
be the warmth that was always hidden
beneath the skin so watchful.
I want to run away,
but how do you run away
when there is no more reason for you to run?
What do you tell your legs?
What do you tell the places you haven’t touched
but promised to?
I want to stop.
I want not to dream
but to look outside and see reality waiting.
I want to look it in the eyes
and promise it that I am ready
to take back the trust and learn how to use it.
I feel vast, I feel limited.
I want my body to burn
if that means feeling the warmth,
but winter still feels like home.
sarrahvxlxr Dec 2017
I want the kind of peace
that doesn't take me back to the island
but instead allow me to look at the ocean
that is gazing at the sky with adoration and respect.

Still, not far away, I see fear sitting in a rock, waiting for me.
Its eyes say there are still things left to burn—
last night it was as if some kind of monster
ordered me to set my house on fire
so it would not expose how many times I mourned
not for a person
but for the time wasted acquainting them
with the sea I carry within.
I was afraid burning the whole thing
would left me empty again,
so I stopped admiring the flames.

Now a wave sprouts where I am
and does not tremble when it presses its body to mine,
like a lover unafraid—I want the kind of peace that does the same way.
The kind that swims
and truly
sets
me
free.
sarrahvxlxr Dec 2017
There are times when I feel
that I have already forgotten you
but those don't happen as often
as when you pass through me like a feeling
going about your business
touching my core, wounding it
and then moving away without warning.
I see you
in lights dancing in my room.
For a while, what bliss.
But lights fade, too, without notice.
That is how I understood
why they draw your face
as if they know you very well.
This morning I left the kettle screaming.
It is hard to listen to any sound
other than confusion
which is louder.
Now there is a fly that just landed on my 835-page book.
How I want to **** it.
Yet how I want to let it linger a bit longer
to distract me
from trying to understand you
like a language,
but failing.
Dear, I knew leaving
I had grown used to the sound of it,
but never like this,
never when leaving left me longing.
Longing is a thing you taught me.
Longing is an insect that stings.
Longing is a song on repeat.
Longing is a period drama that said,
"It was every day implied but never declared."
Longing is a place I do not want to be at.
Longing is a music festival with a sea of thousand faces
but with yours I'm trying to find.
Longing is a quiet bench by the park.
Longing is me forgetting how beer tastes like
without your memory in it.
Longing is me wanting to tell you about my drunken nights.
You used to know about those nights.
Now I only talk to you in dreams.
In one dream I touched your hand
I didn't see your face
but I knew it was you,
like the pain that tapped my shoulder so I would wake up
it had no skin that I could tear off
but I knew it came from you.
I sometimes sit by the window
trying to feel only the wind
but there you are again,
making me think about the day
when you told me you were stuck four hours in traffic.
It was a Friday night in EDSA.
I laughed that it surprised you.
Tell me about the ghosts inside your bedroom.
And I'll tell you about mine
How they fade away when you're nearby.
Have you heard about this feeling?
How I want it to die.
Tell me you're close by
Or tell me you're far from here
Just tell me anyhow
For I do not know
when will I ever stop waiting.
Dear, I have been locking the doors hundreds of times.
It wasn't my brain that told me I should.
It was November.
But I want you to know
I still have my windows open.
Dear, I am terribly confused.
I am afraid to be the forest,
to still be here,
waiting,
even after you burned me to the ground,
when I used to be the wildfire,
the one that burns
and devours,
the one that doesn't wait.
But now I am the ash,
defeated,
longing to rise back once again to myself
longing to not feel you anywhere
longing to not feel.
But, dear, I still am terribly confused.
sarrahvxlxr Nov 2017
I knew you were about to leave.
I knew about the rose you plucked in the garden
that caused your fingers to bleed
You told me you'd be gone for a while
so you could take away the thorns
and no holes would be seen in your hand
once you tried to reach the forest
that was resting on mine.
But I've heard that before.
I've heard farewells
disguised as something beautiful,
something rare.
I knew about the songs that fell silent
when it heard the other one stopped listening.
I knew about the doors that opened
and then got slammed
by the hands it let in.
As you have said, I've had forest on my hand,
but what I heard was the fire you tried to soak me in.
I never told you about the rain that also burned inside me.
You will not be my destruction.
Next page